


like love, like everything

by windupbirdgirl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Sort Of, get it together viktor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15422466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windupbirdgirl/pseuds/windupbirdgirl
Summary: "I think we should get married.”“Pardon?” Yuuri's hand stills, a deer in headlights.“Will you,” Viktor says, the words all falling out in a jumble now, clumsy and garbled and far from perfect, “will you marry me?”Yuuri gives him a funny look. “Yes? We’d established that, hadn’t we?”(In which Viktor is the dense one, and poor Yuuri just wants to get hitched.)





	like love, like everything

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from the poem 'Wedding' by Alice Oswald:
> 
> "and when the luck begins, it's like a wedding,  
> which is like love, which is like everything."

_January, 2018_

It’s loud, busy, and Viktor can barely hear himself think over the hubbub. The competitors and their coaches from the Four Continents’ cup had been cordially invited to spend their evening in one of Gangneung’s most famous tourist-traps, a seafood restaurant boasting good service and great food.

Only three short hours ago, Yuuri had been standing on the highest spot on the podium as they hung the gold medal around his neck.

“Honestly, you could’ve bagged the gold with those costumes alone,” Chris says, swirling a finger over the rim of his wine glass in an amused sort of way.  

Across the table, Yuuri blushes slightly but doesn’t protest. He knows that they’d gone all out with his outfits this year: a star-studded azure piece for the Short Program, and a spangled navy ensemble for the Free Skate. Yuuri just looks so good in blue.  

“Oh, your costumes outdid mine during the European Championships,” Yuuri says, “We watched them from St Peterburg, didn’t we, Viktor?” His tone is innocent enough, but there’s an edge to it and Viktor is sure that they’re both remembering Chris’s mankini-esque costume.

“That we did.” Viktor agrees, suddenly overcome with the urge to laugh. He wishes he could nudge Yuuri, but he’s sitting a whole three metres away next to Phichit and Viktor can’t quite reach. “It’s nice you came to watch today, by the way.”

“Yes, well,” Chris waves a dismissive hand, “Moral support and all that. I wanted to finally see Viktor’s Yuuri win that gold.”

Phichit, who had been deep in conversation with Guang-Hong, swivels in his seat indignantly at this. “Hey!” he begins, wagging a drunk finger at Chris, “ _Our_ Yuuri won gold at Worlds last year, not to mention winning silver again at the Grand Prix!”

Chris just laughs, and Yuuri turns to Phichit with a sappy sort of look that he only ever wears after a few too many glasses of wine. “You had an amazing season too,” Yuuri tells Phichit, “making the podium in nearly every major competition!”

“Oh, but you’re the one who-”

Phichit had come third in the Four Continents, losing out only to Yuuri and a skater from South America whose name Viktor could not remember. He was currently wearing his bronze medal proudly, the copper glinting over his chest, a symbol of his rise to stardom in the skating world.

Next to him, however, Yuuri’s neck is conspicuously bare. He never wears his medals for longer than he has to, and Viktor knows for a fact that his gold medal is currently wrapped carefully in a scarf and stashed in his suitcase. The only gold he was wearing was the ring on his finger.

“Yes, yes, you’ve all done very well,” Chris says, leaning forward across the table and jerking Viktor out of his reverie, “but what I want to know is, when am I getting my invitation?”

Yuuri tears his gaze away from Phichit, confused. “Invitation?”

“Or a Save-the-Date card. Either, really.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your wedding, of course.”

There’s a pause. A pretty waitress begins clearing their table, soft hands plucking empty bottles like flowers in a field. “Oh,” Yuuri says, rather stupidly, “Well...at some point, maybe.” He gives an embarrassed laugh, glancing at Viktor, who decides it’s time to intervene and take the bullet for poor Yuuri, who has had enough stress.

“Isn’t yours going to be first, Chris? Or is your Masumi having second thoughts?” Viktor says idly, fishing the olive out of his martini.

It’s enough because Chris grins and turns away from Yuuri to face him. “Of course not. My big fat gay wedding just requires a lot of planning, is all. But don’t change the subject. When are the two of you, ah, how you say, tying the knot?”

Viktor flicks a strand of hair out of his eyes, “I’m not telling.”

“Why? Did you two elope, or something?”

“No. But it’s true that that would be very on-brand for me.”

Chris looks a little shocked at this, mouth hanging open in a very undignified fashion. “You mean to say you two have no plans for it?”

“Not yet.”

“Viktor! How unromantic! You promised to marry him, you can’t let him down now!” Chris’s eyes are wide as saucers.

Viktor finishes his drink elegantly. “I was going to wait until I retired after Worlds to propose…” 

“Propose? You’re already engaged.”

“But, you see,” Viktor says miserably, ignoring Chris, “I don’t know how to go about it, because we’ve already got the matching rings.”

“Yes, because you’re already engaged.”

Viktor sighs pitifully, “Yuuri said those were good luck charms.”

“You wear matching rings and you live together. You’re engaged.”

“...Sometimes love is complicated.”

“But you’re already engaged.”

* * *

When Yuuri’s quadruple flip won him his first gold at the 2017 Worlds Championships, Viktor didn’t know how to bring it up, afterwards. The celebrations were supposed to be about Yuuri, who’d beaten Viktor to first place, and the last thing that he wanted to do was drag the spotlight back onto himself by asking Yuuri to marry him during the banquet.

So he didn’t mention it.

At the next Grand Prix Final, Viktor snagged back his reputation by winning the gold and beating Yuri’s world record to boot. Yuuri placed second again, but he didn’t seem to mind at all, smiling sweetly up at Viktor from one step below.

Somehow their promise had gotten lost within the hours of training and press conferences, travelling and competitions; Viktor hadn’t forgotten, far from it. The problem was timing. He’s something of an expert when it comes to grand gestures, easily pulling out all the stops for a surprise birthday party or a new routine, but this was just different. It needed to be special, private, to mean something more.

“You’re sure you have the boarding passes, though?” Yuuri asks, patting down his coat and ticking off his mental checklist. Keys phone charger ticket medicine earplugs sunglasses passport-

“I’ve triple-checked,” Viktor replies patiently. It’s 10 o’clock in the morning, a day after Yuuri’s win, and their flight from Taipei to St. Petersburg doesn’t leave until the evening, but Yuuri is an anxious traveller. Viktor has noticed that Yuuri will always double-check the drawers of the hotel bedside table, even though he’s made a rule of never using them during trips.

(“I once left a stuffed rabbit behind in a hotel, when we visited family in Tokyo,” Yuuri told him once, very seriously, “So now I just leave everything in my suitcase so I don’t forget anything.”

“I’ll buy you a stuffed rabbit,” Viktor said immediately).

Yuuri scans the room one last time and gives an approving nod, touching the ring on his finger absently. “Okay,” he shuffles past Viktor with his suitcase, casually touching his waist to spin him around, “Let’s go then.”

It’s a very quiet trip back. Yuuri is exhausted from the previous day’s exertion and spends the whole flight tucked under a blanket and eating aeroplane food. By the time the plane begins its descent, however, he seems to have regained a little of his energy, so Viktor doesn’t feel guilty about shopping for a little bit before they find Yuri.

“Where have you two been?” Yuri barks when they finally arrive, 5’4 inches of teenage angst and rage, “your flight arrived nearly an hour ago!” He points furiously to the arrival board.

Yuuri starts buttoning up his coat wearily. “Hello, Yurio. Viktor was spending all his money in the duty-free.”

“Seriously?”

Viktor holds up two large plastic bags for confirmation and winks at Yuri, who looks absolutely disgusted. Yuuri tries not to smile.

_“You mean to say I dragged myself here to pick you up and you flounce around buying shitty chocolate?”_

“You mean you made Yakov drive you,” Viktor says mildly, “And I wasn’t buying chocolate,” he adds. Yuri makes an angry, indistinct noise, and moves to hug Yuuri.

“Where is Yakov, anyway?” Yuuri asks, squinting at the people around them and patting Yuri on the back, “toilet?”

“He left,” Yuri says instantly, voice muffled against Yuuri’s coat. “Didn’t want to look at Viktor.”

“My, that’s rude, Yurio.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Yuri and Viktor argue about airport cologne for the whole taxi ride back to the apartment. Yuuri, still enjoying the last vestiges of his medically-prescribed sleeping tablets, stares out of the window and ignores them.

It’s not a long drive, thankfully, as Viktor and Yuuri had chosen an apartment equidistant from the airport and the rink. They hadn’t even been living there for a year, but already Viktor couldn’t wait to move out, maybe to somewhere closer to the sea. Somewhere that maybe wasn’t Russia. The flat itself was lovely, all whitewashed walls and wide windows, but the building was foreboding, fake, unnerving.

It’s a high-security apartment block, with bouncers and night guards and complicated alarm systems, built for those who were both rich and scared enough to pay large sums of money for 24-hour protection. It’s home to foreign dignitaries, B-list celebrities, and affluent homosexuals. Viktor fits into two of those categories just by himself, and with Yuuri-

Well. At least they don’t have to worry about what the neighbours think, because they don’t really have any. The only other resident they’d seen was a tall, dark-haired man living on the floor below them. Viktor thinks he’s a spy for the Kremlin. Yuuri thinks Viktor is ridiculous.

The elevator is black and sleek as it cuts smoothly through the night, taking them back to the flat. Outside, St. Petersburg is a fluorescent haze, and Viktor can see their reflection in the glass window, Yuuri resting against his shoulder because the motion makes him dizzy.

Yuuri’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut as he says: “You’d better stay the night, Yurio.”

“Okay,” Yuri agrees, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t seem to mind as much when it’s Katsuki Yuuri who uses his abhorred nickname. “Can we get pizza? Please.”

“Yes. Viktor, can you-?”

“Already doing it,” Viktor types in the phone number for _Pavlov’s Pizza Pies_ and presses _call_.

Half an hour later, they’re sitting in the horrible apartment eating horrible pizza around Viktor’s too-small dining table. It’s not exactly comfortable; Yuuri keeps stepping on his foot accidentally and Yurio bristles whenever they knock elbows. Viktor thinks that he could live like this forever, probably.

* * *

“Viktor.” A voice hisses.

Viktor’s hands pause from where they’re untying the laces of his skates. He looks up, scanning the busy changing room, and at first, Viktor thinks he’s imagining things. “Hello?”

Then the door to a storage closet opens and Yuuri peers out, beckoning for him to come in. Viktor obliges, pulling off his skates (carefully) and joining his boyfriend in the gloom. It’s very cramped and smells strongly of bleach.

“This is cosy. Did you want to make out? I think there are spiders.”

“Wait for a second, Vitya-” There’s a click, and the light comes on. Yuuri looks a little harassed, leaning against the wall with a funny, flushed expression on his face. There’s an envelope in his hands.

“What’s going on?” It wasn’t a very romantic ambush, as far as Victor could tell.

“We missed Georgi’s wedding,” Yuuri explains, now looking a little frantic, “It was during the Four Continents, I was going to send him a card but I forgot, and now I think he’s mad.”

Viktor claps a hand to his forehead. “Oh my God. I totally forgot.”

“Right? We’re terrible people.”

“Should we send him an edible arrangement to make up for it? He likes those.”

Yuuri shakes his head mournfully, “I’ve bought him a congratulations card,” he gestures to the envelope, “but I need you to sign it before I give it to him. Them,” he corrects. Georgi’s fiancée (or wife, now) is an ice dancer. Viktor thinks her name is Anna.

“Of course,” Viktor takes the card and then takes Yuuri’s outstretched hand, “do you want me to give it to him, too?”

Yuuri’s shoulder’s sag with relief. “Oh, yes please,” he exhales softly, eyes flitting to their joined hands, “I can’t face him by myself.”

It’s so soft, even though the room is stuffy and thick with the tang of cleaning products. Viktor thinks about Georgi and marriage, brushes a thumb over Yuuri’s ring, and then just thinks about marriage.

“Yuuri,” Viktor presses a kiss against his forehead, “do you…”

“Yes?” Yuuri’s voice is impossibly quiet.

“Do you...want to stop off at Magnit on the way home?”

“Oh.”

“We need pasta. Oh, and kitchen roll.”

Yuuri blinks. “Sure.”

Viktor mentally kicks himself. There’s a babble of noise from the corridor as a group of people walk past, shoes thudding against the lino.

“Right then. Should we come out of the closet, Yuuri?” Viktor’s eyes sparkle. He swings Yuuri’s hand a little.

“You can’t make that joke every time,” Yuuri protests but he’s grinning, “and this hardly qualifies as a closet. It’s more of a small room.”

* * *

_February_

The buildup to the 2018 World Championship is tense, partly because it’s Viktor’s last official competition, and partly because Yuuri breaks his ankle in a nasty collision during group training.

“I feel fine, I swear,” Yuuri promises, looking pained but determined as he clambers out of the car using his crutches. “Honestly, I think the crutches are overkill, it’s just my ankle.”

“ _Just_ a sprained ankle?” Viktor says hotly, “Yuuri, an ankle injury is the Achilles’ heel of a competitive skater!” He reaches out to help Yuuri with his bags, but Yuuri pushes his hand away.

“I said it’s fine.” Yuuri snaps and begins to walk angrily towards the lobby of their horrible apartment block. Well, as angry as one can manage with a limp and a bulky cast.

They’d just returned home from an appointment with the Team Russia physician, who had forbidden Yuuri from competing in the World Championship. The news had come as a blow, she said, but it really wasn’t so bad; Yuuri had already won the gold at the Four Continents and was set for another successful season later on in the year. But Viktor knew the real reason for Yuuri’s discontent.

It had been the last opportunity for the two of them to compete in the same competition, at the same level.

That had disappointed Viktor too, at first, he supposes as he fishes in his pocket for the key. Had he been relieved that he had one less competitor to face? Or been upset that he would never have another chance to defeat Yuuri?

Was that what he had wanted? To defeat him? Viktor wasn’t sure he knew the answer to that.

The door opens with a soft click. Next to him, Yuuri leans against the wall, and the anger seems to have faded into something sadder. His hair is damp with sweat from the effort of walking. His mouth is one unhappy line

“I’ll bring in your bags,” Viktor says quietly. He lifts the satchel and the duffel bag from Yuuri’s shoulder gently. Yuuri doesn’t protest, just lets Viktor take them.

Viktor deposits their bags in the hallway cupboard with a loud thud, hangs up his coat, places his shoes neatly in the rack then goes to the kitchen to boil the kettle. He gets two mugs from the cabinet, sets them on the countertop, then scrolls through Instagram while he waits for the water to heat up.

A few minutes later, Viktor walks into the living room carrying two steaming mugs of tea to see Yuuri flopped on the sofa, head pressed into the pillow and feet dangling over the armrest.

“I made tea”

There’s a muffled grunting sound from the sofa. Viktor sighs.

“You could sit up and drink it like an adult. Even Yurio would do that.”

Yuuri twists over until he’s facing Viktor, all grumpy eyes and soft skin. He seems ready to protest but then he frowns and looks at Viktor directly. “I’m. I’m sorry, Viktor. I know I’m being unfair.”

“No, you’re just being injured and in pain. Don’t apologise.”

“I want to though,” Yuuri moves to get up, dislodging his ankle in the process.

“Wait. Stay there, I’ll come to you.”

Yuuri budges up until there’s enough room for Viktor, who sits down opposite him and crosses his legs. Yuuri copies him.

“We will skate together again, Yuuri.”

“It sounds so dramatic when you put it like that.”

“That was the point.”

This earns him a soft laugh, and Yuuri reaches out to play with a loose thread on Viktor’s jeans. “I still have next year, I guess. But you,” he looks up, “this is your last one. It’s you who should be upset, not me.”

“Why should I be upset?”

“That’s a stupid question,” Yuuri tugs at the thread, which comes loose in his hands, “I was distraught whenever I considered retiring.”

“Maybe,” Viktor also begins picking at his jeans. He should really get some new ones. “Maybe that’s just because you weren’t ready to retire.”

“Are you?”

Viktor thinks for a moment. “Yes.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“No, not entirely, but I think it’s the right decision. My joints certainly do.” He smiles weakly. Yuuri still looks unsure. “I’ll still do ice dances, shows, that sort of thing. It’s not like I’m retiring from the actual skating world. And I still have you.”

“I know that, but” Yuuri inhales, “can I ask a stupid question?”

Viktor nods.

“We’re still definitely going to stay together, then? After you retire, after I retire?” Yuuri’s looking at the thread in his hand, rolling it between the tip of his thumb and his index finger.

“Yuuri!” Viktor’s shocked into a laugh, which sounds echoey and strange in the hollow room. “That was a stupid question. Of course we will.”

“Okay.” A secret smile.

“Did you know,” Viktor says, “this was the sofa I was sitting on when I first watched the video of you performing my routine?”

“I knew.”

* * *

_March_

At the 2018 World Championships, Viktor doesn’t break any world records but he does win a gold medal.

* * *

_April_

“Wow,” Mari looks impressed, tracing a bony finger over their medals, “you two worked hard.”

It’s 2 AM, and Viktor, Yuuri, and Mari are sitting in _Yu-topia_ ’s now-deserted dining room.

Viktor isn’t sure when the Inn became as familiar to him as it is now, seeing his and Yuuri’s suitcases stacked in the corner and the smoke from Mari’s cigarette furling about the ceiling. Normally Yuuri’s parents would throw a small party whenever they returned from a competition, but they’d arrived in the early hours of the morning and only Mari had stayed up late enough to greet them when they arrived.

The Inn seems different at night when the main lights are turned off and the air is thick and syrupy with the incense that Mari uses to ward off mosquitoes. It’s not a bad smell by any means, but today’s scent is lavender and the purple haze of it is making Viktor feel drowsy and stupid. Yuuri, on the other hand, appears to be immune.

“I’m going to go and get another drink,” he says brightly, standing up from the tatami mat, “does anyone else want one?”

“Just a glass of water please, Yura.” Viktor is having trouble keeping his eyes open.

“Mari?”

“I’m okay, thank you.”

Yuuri pads off towards the storerooms and Viktor has to resist the urge to follow. Instead, he turns to Mari, who’s still staring at Yuuri’s Four Continent’s medal. A few minutes pass in a strange, peaceful silence before Viktor asks: “How are you?”

She smiles, and there are lines around her eyes. Her and I, we’re nearly the same age, Viktor thinks.  

“Me?” she taps some ash off her cigarette, “I am normal. _Yu-topia_ is - how you say it - busy. Very busy.”

“And your parents?”

There’s snow falling outside, but the crystals melt when they touch the warm windows. A summery winter.

“My parents are happy,” she says, and after a pause, “because Yuuri is so happy.”

“Oh,”

“You know, we have weddings here. When it’s warm outside.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” Mari stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray, staring dreamily into the distance, “So obviously, it would be free for you.”

“For me?”

“You and Yuuri.”

That’s all it takes for delightful visions to begin appearing in his mind’s eye. It’s not like they could actually get married, legally, but having a ceremony of some sort would be...nice. Viktor is sure Yuuri would agree if he asked.

“What are you two talking about?” Yuuri asks, walking back into the room clutching a beer in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Viktor starts, “Ah, just, Mari was explaining the. Um, the Inn’s origins,” he replies quickly in Russian. Mari gives him a quizzical look from across the table.

“Is that so?” Yuuri says in English, amused. “Here-”

He leans down gracefully, setting the glass of water down in front of Viktor. He’d added a slice of lemon and some ice cubes.

“You took ages, by the way,” Viktor tells him, “Bathroom?”

“No.” Yuuri plops down next to him delicately, “I went to greet Vicchan.” His hand finds Victor’s underneath the table.

Viktor takes a moment to appreciate just how thoroughly Yuuri has mastered the ‘jet-lagged sleeping beauty’ look. Purplish-grey bags under his eyes, hair all mussed from the headrest, he presses an icy beer can against the back of his brown neck. The hot springs make the inn very stuffy at night, even though it’s only April. Viktor watches as drops of condensation slide down Yuuri’s skin and disappear beneath his t-shirt.

“Oh yes, you didn’t bring Makkachin this time,” Mari says, “I miss that dog.”

“Yurio’s looking after him,” Viktor grins, “We think the responsibility will help him mature.”

Yuuri snorts. “Only a miracle could do that.” He begins to trace slow circles over Viktor’s wrist with his thumb. Viktor jerks his arm away involuntarily.

“Yuuri! That tickles.”

“You’re so sensitive,” Yuuri says, eyes gleaming, as he reaches for Viktor’s arm again.

Mari raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Oh boy. If you two are starting that, I’m out.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri says cheerfully, trying in vain to pin Viktor’s wrist to the table. If it wasn’t for his inebriation, he certainly wouldn’t be acting like this in front of Mari; even after spending years with Yuuri, Viktor still couldn’t pin down his relationship with his sister. Their closeness wasn’t obvious, and neither of them had much in common, yet there was an intangible bond tying them together. It was in the little things. The way Yuuri smiles softly at Mari when she rants about customers. The fact that Mari has a Google Alert set up for Yuuri’s name. Their eyes.

“You don’t sound sorry,” Mari gets to her feet and winces, rubbing her knee, “okay, well, I’m off to bed. You two should try to sleep, really- oh, and Viktor? Think about what I said.”

“Right,” Viktor says distractedly, “Goodnight!”

“‘Night, Mari _nee-san_ ” Yuuri calls, using his free hand to wave at her. He’s definitely edging towards drunk, now.

Mari shoots Viktor a worried look; he gives her the thumbs up.

They’ve got it under control.

(Sort of.)

* * *

After a hasty reunion with Yuuri’s parents the next morning, Hiroko sends them off to Hasetsu’s Saturday morning market with several empty baskets and an extensive shopping list.

It’s barely 9 AM, and the winds blowing in from out at sea are devastatingly cold, stinging their faces and reddening their eyes, but Viktor finds this more familiar than uncomfortable. He’d take a chilly wind over tropical heat any day.

Next to him, Yuuri looks less happy. “I thought we were going to stay in bed today,” he laments, hoisting a _Yu-topia_ -branded tote bag more securely onto his shoulder, “considering we only arrived six hours ago and haven’t slept at all.”

“I think Hiroko-san wanted to help us beat the jetlag, no?” Viktor says, “Besides, you slept more than me.”

“How’d you work that one out?” 

Above them, the seagulls cry shrilly as Viktor pauses.

“Well,” he says slowly, “You were snoring a lot.”

Yuuri stops in his tracks, agape. The tote bag slips down his shoulder again so Viktor tugs it back up for him. “Viktor! You’re lying. I never snore.”

“You do after you drink.”

“Liar.”

“I filmed it,” Viktor lies, and taps the pocket containing his phone to prove his point.

“I don’t believe you,” Yuuri says, then pulls out his own phone and spends a few seconds scrolling furiously before announcing, “you did lie. There’s no video here.” 

Far too late, Viktor remembers their shared iCloud photos account. He’d complain, but it was his idea to set it up so instead he says, childishly, “you still snored.”

Yuuri fixes him with an exasperated sort of look and doesn’t deign to respond. He starts walking again and Viktor trails after him, noticing as he does so that the combined effect of Yuuri’s padded blue coat and an armful of bags makes him look a little like a penguin. He decides not to comment on this.

Hasetsu Market is mercifully close to the Inn (as is everything else, really) so it’s not much of a walk. Viktor had visited only twice before: once with Yuuri, and the other time with Mari, after the Makkachin Incident. It’s not a very grand affair, the whole Market comprising of around twenty stalls owned by local fishermen, but it is very quaint and smells like the sea. Viktor likes that it’s next to a harbour, likes the way that the rainbow-coloured sailboats sway and knock against each other whenever a wave comes in.

By the time they arrive, Yuuri has abandoned his annoyance at Viktor in favour of working their way through Hiroko’s shopping list. “Okay,” he says, businesslike, as he scans the list, chewing his lip with concentration, “we’ll go to Andou’s stand and get the Yobiko squid first, he usually sells out pretty fast. Viktor, you’re good at bartering, maybe you could go to Michimiya’s - you know who he is?”

Viktor nods.

“Oh good, okay, you can go to him for the Takezaki crab - we need two kilograms, Mum need to boil it for tomorrow - and then I’ll meet you outside the butcher’s.” Yuuri finishes with a flourish. Not for the first time, Viktor thinks about how easily Yuuri could have chosen another career given the opportunity, and feels suddenly grateful that Minako is as persuasive as she is.

“Michimiya, crab, two kilograms, understood.”

Several arguments over prices and a whole lot of fish later, Viktor and Yuuri’s wallets are emptier and their bags are a lot heavier.

“You got everything?” Yuuri asks happily, face flushed with enjoyment. There aren’t many people in this world who are internationally-renowned athletes _and_ seafood fanatics, but then again Viktor had never doubted that Yuuri was one-of-a-kind.

“Think so,” Viktor fumbles in his wallet for the change that he’d borrowed from the Inn’s cash register and hands it over to Yuuri, then says brightly “hey, did you know that Hasetsu had a fishing museum? Michimiya’s wife was telling me. It’s next to the town hall and I think we should go.”

“I’ve been,” Yuuri grins, taking the money from Viktor, “ _Yu-topia_ is actually mentioned several times in the exhibits. We put leaflets there.”

“All the more reason you should take me there. On a date.”

“Yes, yes,” Yuuri agrees, counting the money Viktor had given him, not because he thinks Viktor would have stolen any, but because he is Yuuri. Then he frowns, says “hang on. This seems too much. Did you get enough of the crab?”

“Yes, two whole kilograms,” Viktor grins, “I can be very persuasive.”

“So you managed to buy that much crab for the same price as my measly squid?”

Viktor winks.

“Oh my gosh,” Yuuri breathes. His eyes have gone slightly glassy. “I’m so attracted to you right now.”

“Save that thought.”

They meander back through the market, feeling a lot more relaxed than they had done earlier, with Yuuri occasionally whispering town gossip in his ear.

(This included tidbits such as:

“Oh, see that man over there? He’s the son of our old vegetable supplier. He had an affair with the daughter of a woman who owns a bunch of restaurants along the river bank, but when they broke up, the whole town had a feud about it. It was intense.”

And:

“Well, I would have asked you to buy the mudskippers from Michimiya too, but everyone knows that his are foul. Mum says he doesn’t prepare them properly, so they smell terrible. You’re supposed to soak them in water first, see.”)

Just before they leave, Yuuri stops off at a street vendor to buy some chargrilled flounder, and they decide to walk to Hasetsu Castle. It may be fake, but it still looks pretty cool, and Viktor knows that Yuuri has missed it.

“You know,” Yuuri says thoughtfully, chewing on a particularly tough part of the fish, “In Detroit, all the non-Asian skaters used to be grossed out whenever I ate fish as a snack.”

Viktor is instantly thrown back to years of opening cans of herring at lunchtime and depositing the fish in his sandwich with mayonnaise, to the horror of American skaters. “I don’t think it’s gross at all.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

They stop by outside the castle, staring up at the wooden beams. Viktor can’t hold Yuuri’s hand, so he just stands as close as possible.

“Do you know what day it is today?” Yuuri asks quietly.

“It’s Saturday?”

“This is the day you came to Hasetsu for the first time. Two years ago.”

“Oh,” Viktor casts his mind back, “That feels so long ago.”

“Does it?”

* * *

By the end of April, spring had definitely sprung.

Even though the soil had been frozen and unyielding only two weeks previously, air currents from Taiwan had blown warm winds across southern Japan and coaxed the barren earth green again. In Hasetsu, the distant mountains suddenly seemed a lot closer than before, shockingly vibrant against the blue ocean and the blue sky; petals from the cherry blossom trees danced along the pavements, a rose-coloured carpet. When Viktor lazed around in his room, reading or cleaning, the dappled light filtering through the leafy trees outside was warm and clear.

It was hard not to feel relaxed when the world around him had blossomed into something so beautiful, but the question of marriage was still pressing heavily on Viktor’s mind.

It had been hard to corner Hiroko and Toshiya at a time when they weren’t busy. April was a very busy season, tourism-wise, and a delegation of businesspeople from Kagoshima was currently occupying around ten of the Inn’s rooms and a lot of the staff’s time. Viktor didn’t mind this crowded, bustling version of the Inn at all. It was more friendly, somehow, hearing the babble of voices when he walked into the dining room for breakfast, helping Mari hang floral-patterned futons out to dry in the little garden behind the kitchens.

Viktor finally gets his chance on the last day of April. It’s Shōwa Day, which meant most of the Inn’s usual patrons were preoccupied with their families, and there was a momentary lull in business. It was the perfect opportunity; Yuuri was babysitting for Yuuko and Nishigori, whilst Mari was asleep upstairs.

Viktor, Hiroko, and Toshiya had just finished cleaning the summer dining set.

“Something to drink, Hiroko-san?”

“Oh, thank you, Vicchan,” Hiroko beams at him, accepting a glass of lemonade. She fans herself enthusiastically with one of Minako’s ballet school brochures. “I think Toshiya’s just coming with some lunch- oh, there he is!”

Toshiya Katsuki, who could for all the world be an older version of Yuuri, sets down a large tray in front of them. It’s laden with leftovers from the night before: rice sprinkled with daikon shavings; prawn and lotus tempura; Spanish mackerel; thick slices of red watermelon. It’s a bizarre assortment, but Viktor feels his mouth start to water from the sight of it all.

“Well done, everyone!” Toshiya says, smiling at his wife and patting Viktor’s arm, “Mari will be pleased that she doesn’t have to do it when she wakes up.”

“Yes,” Viktor agrees, and he’s smiling but his heart is clenching painfully, “although I was wondering if I could ask you both about...something.”

“Hm?” Toshiya hums, barely glancing at him as he spoons rice into a bowl.

“Ask away,” Hiroko smiles, handing him a plate too, “Or wait- would you prefer a bowl?”

“A plate is fine,” he assures her, “See, the thing is- Yuuri and I.” There was no point in beating around the bush, he decides, and just comes out with it. “I was wondering, see, if we got married. How that would sit with you.”

Yuuri’s parents pause. Toshiya’s chopsticks drop from his hand and clatter onto his plate in a rather comical fashion. They glance at each other.

When Hiroko speaks, it’s tentative and confused. “But- Vicchan, what are you talking about? I’ve already reserved the largest banquet room for the reception.”

It is Viktor’s turn to drop his chopsticks.

* * *

“You’re such an idiot,” Yuri says, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Yurio, I just don’t understand,” Viktor adjusts the phone so he can see Yuri better, and pulls the blanket more snugly around himself. “That ought to have been very surprising information, I don’t know what Hiroko meant with that banquet hall business-”

“What she _meant,”_ Yuri explains, very slowly and clearly, as though Viktor were deaf or stupid or maybe both, “is that she knew you were getting married.”

“But,” Viktor replies, still not getting it, “we’re not getting married. Yet.”

“What’s wrong with you? Is this what happens when people retire too young?”

Viktor presses mute on Facetime. He’s waiting for Yuuri to get back from Yuuko’s, and whilst it’s 9 o’clock in Japan, it’s only 3 in Moscow, so he’d decided to phone Yurio and ask for his sage advice.

He unmutes. “Are you quite finished?”

“Yes, but if you do that again I’ll hang up.” Yuri frowns at him through the screen. “Just ask him to marry you if it matters that much. You don’t have to be such a baby about it.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Just then, a voice calls from Yuri’s end: “Yuri? Is that Viktor?”

Viktor perks up instantly, “Oh, Yakov? Hello? Can you hear me?”

Yakov’s voice is gruffly suspicious when he says, “What does he want?”

Yuri props his head in his hands, “he’s decided that he wants to get proper married to Yuuri.”

There’s a pause. “But they are already married.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” says Viktor, slightly miffed.

Yakov mutters something unintelligible, and then: “I’m leaving.”

Just then, the door opens and Yuuri walks in. The days may be getting warmer, but the nights are still cold; Yuuri’s still wearing his red scarf, and his cheeks are flushed.

“Yuuri! Hello,” Viktor says happily, all irritation forgotten as he slides over to make room for Yuuri on the bed, “I’m talking to Yurio.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Yuuri clambers up onto the bed and manages to make it look graceful. He shuffles across the mattress until he’s all pressed up against Viktor, tucking his hands underneath his knees and peering over at Viktor’s phone. “Hi, Yurio. What are you two talking about?”

It’s lucky, Viktor thinks fervently, that although Yurio has no qualms about insulting both Yuuri and Viktor, he’d never try to interfere in their relationship. Yurio looks at Viktor, his eyes no more than blue-grey pixels, and says “Uhm. We were talking about Viktor’s new routine.”

“New routine?” Yuuri inquires, looking to Viktor for confirmation, who gives an aborted shrug. “What for?”

“Oh,” Yuri invents wildly, “An ice show. In...South Korea.”

“We’re going to South Korea? How lovely.” Yuuri’s eyes are twinkling. It couldn’t be clearer that he hasn’t bought Yuri’s tall tale.

“Isn’t it.” Viktor says, a little desperately.

“Hm,” Yuuri taps his chin with his finger, “So, I suppose this new routine is the one you’ve been practicing so intently.”

“Which routine? What are you talking about?”

“You know. The one you choreographed to the _Harry Potter_ soundtrack.” Yuuri’s voice is completely innocent, but he starts playing with the drawstring of Viktor’s hoodie.

“Don’t tell him about that-” Viktor starts, alarmed, but it’s too late. On the other side of the screen, Yuri had gone into raptures.

“Viktor likes _Harry Potter_?” He breathes.

“Very much,” Yuuri nods, “he sees himself as a bit of a classic hero, you see.”

Then he gives the drawstring a sharp tug, pulling Viktor forward. Viktor is having a bit of trouble breathing.

“Okay!” Viktor says in a falsely cheerful voice, snatching the phone closer to his chest, “We’ll speak to you soon!” He tells the screen and terminates the call. Then he rounds on Yuuri.

“What did you tell him that for?” Viktor asks reproachfully.

Yuuri doesn’t reply, just gives another insistent tug on Viktor’s hoodie. Viktor, deciding to humour him, leans down to give Yuuri a kiss, short and chaste, before pulling back. “Well?” Viktor prompts.

“Because it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Yuuri leans his head back against the wall, “Also. I think you deserved it.”

“I respectfully disagree.”

“You’re keeping something from me,” Yuuri says, “It’s so easy to tell with you.”

Despite Viktor’s best efforts, Yuuri could always tell when something was wrong. Unlike most of the other skaters, Viktor doesn’t wear his heart proudly on his sleeve, sewed on not-so-neatly with red ribbon and sparkly sequins. Yuuri though, Yuuri always knew.

“Anyway,” Yuuri exhales, looking up at Viktor with big brown eyes and searching his face for something unknown, “I want to know what were the two of you actually talking about, and-”

“But Yurio said-”

“I heard what Yurio said,” Yuuri interrupts him, twisting around until he was facing Viktor directly. “But I want to know what you and Yurio were _actually_ talking about, and I also want to know what you said to my parents that had them gushing all over me as soon as I walked through the entrance.”

“Oh, that.” Viktor runs his hand over Yuuri’s knee and decides on the truth. Or at least, part of it. “I just had a...revealing conversation with them earlier.”

“What sort of conversation?” Yuuri asks, voice low, removing Viktor’s hand from his knee and placing it around his waist.

“A conversation about the future.” Viktor grins and half-lifts, half-pulls Yuuri onto his lap. “Are we really doing this now, by the way?”

“Doing what? The talking or sex?”

Viktor brushes Yuuri’s hair out of his eyes, “both.”

“Then yes.” Yuuri smiles, and it’s so genuine that it makes Viktor want to do anything that Yuuri asks of him. He loves the way Yuuri feels on top of him, the reassuring weight of his body as they move together.

There’s a lapse in conversation as they both decide wordlessly to concentrate on more pressing matters. Yuuri, as always, takes things very slow, moving his mouth carefully against Viktor’s, hot hands loose around his neck. They’re both so used to it now, but sex never feels like part of a routine.

“I’m going to uncover the truth and you know it,” Yuuri tells him, very seriously, glasses slipping down his nose as he unzips Viktor’s hoodie.

“Yes,” Viktor agrees, removing the offending glasses and placing them on the bedside table, “I love you.”

“Do you?” It’s not a serious question, Viktor knows, Yuuri just likes to hear the words.

“So much,” Viktor tells him, hands pressing insistently against Yuuri as they slip away from his waist, going lower, lower, “I adore you, Yura,” Yuuri makes a choked, gasping noise, hands scrabbling for purchase around Viktor’s shoulders. “I think you’re magnificent.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says helplessly, “Vitya, can you-” he breaks off and shudders, squeezing his eyes shut.

Spoken words become moot, at some point. It’s impossible to form coherent sentences, so Viktor stops trying and loses himself in the way that Yuuri writhes under his hands, the way his body trembles under his fingers. When the inevitable conclusion arrives, Viktor surges forward to kiss Yuuri’s open mouth and thinks _I really want to marry you._

* * *

Through the rose-tinted lenses of the world media, Viktor was often shown to be some kind of suave playboy whose path to glory was strewn with broken hearts and distraught ex-girlfriends. The reality, as it usually is, was very different.

(“You’re not cool and mysterious,” Mila had told him once, after one of Viktor’s messier break-ups, “you’re just emotionally stunted.”)

And she was right. Viktor had never been particularly good at being romantic. He’d been told many times that he was too forgetful, too judgemental, and too readily dismissive to love. With Yuuri though, the whole relationship thing had seemed to click; loving someone day after day required effort, attention, compromise.

He realised that love wasn’t supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be an anchor in the vast ocean, the smell of smoke lingering on, even after all of the fireworks had burnt away.

* * *

_July_

He’d missed this.

The ice is a mirror underneath him as he finishes the dance. His skates cut across the perfectly polished surface in time with the orchestral piece playing through the rink’s loudspeakers; it's a very simple routine.

“Viktor?” Someone calls over the music.

Viktor starts, ice chips spraying across the rink as he comes to an inelegant halt, “What the- Oh! You scared me.”

Standing on the other side of Ice Castle Hasetsu’s rink is Yuuri. He’s wearing his practice clothes - blue zip-up, grey slacks - and a very confused expression, which quickly morphs to one of embarrassment.

“Sorry!” Yuuri apologises, dumping his bag on the ground and hurrying to the barrier, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to make you jump.”

“It’s fine,” Viktor says, pushing his hair over his forehead and joining Yuuri at the rinkside, “I was nearly done anyway.” Yuuri isn’t wearing his skates and Viktor feels too tall, so he crouches a bit.

“Hm,” Yuuri leans forward to kiss him on the chin, but his gaze falls just over Viktor’s shoulder, eyeing the rink. He looks uncertain and - was Viktor imagining it? - a little hurt.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just-” Yuuri seems to steel himself, “Was that a new routine? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

Viktor feels his face redden. “That’s because you weren’t supposed to see it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not finished,” Viktor says to a spot of wall above Yuuri’s head. When he doesn’t hear a reply, he looks down and is horrified to see Yuuri’s lip trembling, lovely eyes downcast.

“Yura?”

“If you didn’t want to retire,” Yuuri mumbles, staring at his hands, “You should have said something, you should know that I would support you.”

Sometimes, Viktor really didn’t understand how Yuuri could jump to such outrageous conclusions. “What? No Yuuri, listen to me, you don’t- this isn’t for a competition! Wait, I’ll come to you.”

With a speed that he didn’t think his legs were still capable of, Viktor races towards the gate and stumbles over the step like the ten-year-olds in Yakov’s novice class, kicks off his skates and practically runs to his Yuuri.

Yuuri is silent, still upset, but lets Viktor wrap his arms around him regardless. “It wasn’t for a competition and you haven’t stolen me away from skating,” he says, Yuuri’s hair tickling his nose, “don’t you believe me?”

“I do,” Yuuri shifts in his arms, “but what was the routine for, then? Please don’t tell me you’re actually attending a South Korean ice dance.”

“Actually,” Viktor stops abruptly. He couldn’t do it like this. Surely not.

“Hm?” Yuuri encourages, and Viktor’s arms fall to his sides, limply.

The orchestral piece he’d chosen so carefully was still playing in the background, the melody rolling around the arena and engulfing them. Viktor’s heart swells in his chest, pushing up his lungs and making him dizzy. He can’t breathe. He looks at Yuuri and he says, “I composed that routine for you. As a proposal. I think we should get married.”

“Pardon?” Yuuri stills, looking at him with wide, wide eyes, a fawn in headlights.

“Will you,” The words are all falling out in a jumble now, clumsy and garbled and far from perfect, “will you really marry me?”

Yuuri gives him a funny look. “Yes? We’d established that, hadn’t we?”

* * *

When they tell her the next day, Mari won’t stop laughing.

“Viktor!” She practically cackles, “what do you mean, you hadn’t realised you two were engaged?”

“Well,” Viktor explains, for what feels like the fiftieth time that day, “Yuuri told _me_ that he bought the rings for good luck.”

“They weren’t just _good luck charms_ , Viktor!” Yuuri says, sounding terribly indignant, “I had to pay for them in _installments_!”

“That is a standard financial procedure.”

“Yeah, well. Apart from that, though,” Yuuri sighs, leaning against Viktor happily, “it was awfully romantic.”

Viktor swats him lightly.

“I mean it!” Yuuri grins, “It’s a good story, too. My already-fiancé proposing to me with a specially choreographed routine.”

Mari wipes away a small tear, beaming at the pair of them, “you’ll have to film it for me, Yuuri. Which song did he choose?”

“Part of the _Harry Potter_ soundtrack,” Yuuri tells her.

“You’re so uncultured, darling,” Viktor frowns, “it was from the _Lord of the Rings_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> i just love writing stories which have no discernible plot but do have an abundance of unnecessary semicolons. can you believe that this mess is over 7000 words, too? 
> 
> also, i don't have a beta and grammarly is hecka expensive, so if you spot any glaring errors (especially grammatical) then please let me know! i would have checked more thoroughly but honestly if i have to read through this again i think i might die.
> 
> thanks for reading!


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